Incentive
by caffeinefreetea
Summary: All it took was one tiny word and one tiny question to bring Sherlock's past to light, and one tiny text message to make history repeat itself. Sorrow drips into your heart through a pin-hole, just like a faucet that leaks, and there is comfort in the sound. - Death Cab Warning: slash, non-con, angst
1. Chapter 1

They were sitting in that conveniently placed restaurant across from the clearly suspicious _Lucky Cat Emporium_ when John opened his mouth for the second time in an attempt to speak.

"Sher-"

"Oh, what? You've been dying to say something for the past day and half, for God's sake, what is it?" He paused for a minute while John gave him a look. "Oh no, you're doing that thing with your face right before you ask me something _touching_ and _sensitive_ about my personal life."

He made little jerky movements with his hands as he said this, and John gave him a completely different kind of look.

"Sherlock, no offense, but aside from Mycroft and Lestrade, I am your personal life."

"Yes, and that's quite enough to be going on with, so why don't we just forget this and go back to the task at hand? Do you remember what Sebastian told us about Van Coon? How he lost five million, made it back in a week? Maybe that was how he made such easy money."

"He was a smuggler," John said in realization. Sherlock nodded smugly and stood up, only to immediately sat back down again, rolling his eyes.

"Tell me, now I'm curious."

"What?"

"What you wanted to say! For God's sake, John, keep up."

"Oh, well, I just wanted to ask you, well, it's not really important," he trailed off, and Sherlock mimed shooting himself in the head.

"Fine then, I wanted to know why you called that man from the bank 'Seb'," John said resolutely. It was a silly, ridiculous question, especially for a time like this, but he couldn't get it out of his head and the more he thought about it the more it made him wonder.

"What are you talking about? His _name_ is Sebastian!" Sherlock spat with a look of sheer derision.

"Yes, but you didn't call him Sebastian, did you?" John retorted quietly. Sherlock gave a gasp of exasperation.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Come on now, Sherlock, you're really going to try playing dumb?"

The detective leaned forward on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's not important, John. I knew him at uni, that's all. Can we please focus on the task at hand?"

"But you were friends?"

"Yes, I _suppose_ you could say we were friends. Now - "

"Well, see, that's the part where I'm lost, Sherlock, because according to_ everyone_ who's _ever_ known you, _you don't have friends,_ other than me, and then suddenly this bloke shows up, with this, kind of, insulting but affectionate familiarity - "

"We were close, we had a falling out. There, are you happy?" They looked at each other for a moment before John's curiosity got the better of him again.

"Well, what happened?"

"That's entirely irrelevant, and not really something you need to be worrying about." With that he stood up and stormed out, leaving John flabbergasted in his wake.

When they got back to the apartment, John shook himself out of his coat noisily enough that Sherlock would notice, and stomped over to make himself a very loud cup of tea.

"_What?_" Sherlock drew the word out between his teeth the way people pull chewing gum from the bottom of their shoes. John took the opportunity.

"_Not something I need to be worrying about?_ Really, Sherlock? You do realize that's rather offensive?"

Sherlock's voice dropped in pitch the next time he spoke; he never yelled back at John when the man was seriously angry. He put it down to habit.

"I don't go poking around your personal business - "

"Yes, because you already _know_ everything!"

"That's not at all true."

"All I did was ask you a question, Sherlock!"

"And I clearly didn't want to answer."

John took a deep breath and tried to keep from yelling again. He absolutely hated the way Sherlock's voice would get all small whenever they had a row.

"I'm only concerned about you," he said.

"No, you're not," Sherlock turned to look at him for the first time. "You're curious. You've discovered that there's something I haven't told you about because it's unpleasant for me and you want to force me to do so."

John gave an almighty sigh and collapsed in his favorite chair.

"You're right, you're right. I apologize," John conceded.

"In addition," Sherlock continued as if no one had spoken, "you're not going to find some horrific, tear-jerking story that serves to explain why I'm not all human and emotional like the rest of you. So stop looking."

"Of course not, you already are human, Sherlock. I am concerned though, really," he said more softly. "If someone's been an asshole to you I want to know so I can beat the shit out of them."

Sherlock stared at him a moment, dumbfounded. There was no possible way he could know . . .

"I assure you that will be entirely unnecessary."

"Well, good then."

Later that night, when Sherlock was lying awake in bed, he cried for the first time since senior year. And if John walked by at one in the morning to get his phone and heard sniffling, he didn't say a word.

A few days and one very near death experience later, they had solved the case and were making one last trip to the bank to pick up the rest of their payment. Or, in Sherlock's case, explain the importance of the hairpin to Van Coon's PA as dramatically as possible. Which was why John found himself standing in front of a rather disgruntled Sebastian on a perfectly regular Tuesday morning, feeling slightly annoyed at the way the man's eyes clung to Sherlock as he stalked off down the hall.

"He really climbed up onto the balcony?"

"Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over."

Shouts of nine million pounds erupted to John's left, causing them both to look over. Sebastian smirked.

"Good luck with him, John. He can be quite a handful, pretending he doesn't have emotions and then throwing a temper tantrum when you ignore them. Give him the right incentive and he'll behave, of course."

John had opened his mouth to disabuse Sebastian of notion that he and Sherlock were dating. What came out was a whispered, "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, didn't he tell you? I figured he would have, seeing as how you're so close, but I suppose this is Sherlock we're talking about, isn't it? He and I used to have a thing, back in uni. It wasn't serious, but it lasted a long time, about three years actually. Don't get jealous though," he said with a wink, "he's all yours."

"We're not together. I mean, I'm not dating him," John said almost automatically.

"Really? Well, in that case," he cut off when Sherlock appeared at the door.

"Good day, Sebastian. John. Coming?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"See you around, Sherlock."

John watched with concern as Sebastian's reply made Sherlock's pace slow, however minutely.

_Incentive . . ._

"Is something wrong, John? You seem distracted." Sherlock's comment made him look up, and he realized he's been sitting with a cold cup of tea in his hand, staring at the carpet. He winced guiltily.

"Nothing, I'm fine," he said quickly. Sherlock stared at him a moment, then moved to fully face him on the couch.

"What did he say to you?" he nearly whispered. John looked up and met his eyes in a look full of meaning. Sherlock gripped the cushion a little harder, a horribly familiar sick feeling twisting his stomach. _Please God . . ._

"Were you planning on telling me?" John asked. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in horror.

"I didn't want you to think I was some kind of - " he broke off, unable to get the words out.

"Some kind of what?"

"Please don't make me say it. If you prefer to move out and don't wish to see me again, I understand."

"Sherlock, why in the world would I want that?"

At this the detective looked at him piercingly. "What did he say to you?"

"What do you think he said to me?" John spluttered, slightly annoyed despite himself.

"Please just tell me."

"He told me you used to date, for three years, back in uni. He thought you and I were dating, that's why he brought it up," John said. Sherlock pondered for a moment.

"That's it? Did he actually say date? He didn't say anything about me specifically?"

John stuttered for a moment, deciding which question to address first.

"No, he didn't say date, he said you used to have a 'thing'. He said it wasn't serious. I'm just surprised you were in any relationship at all. And what do you mean, that's it?"

At this point Sherlock stood up suddenly. He couldn't deal with this right now, he didn't want to think about it. _Delete, delete . . . _He was halfway across the room when John grabbed his arm and spun him around.

"Don't walk away from me, Sherlock Holmes! I want to know what's going on here."

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at John, who was now holding him against the table and looking at him expectantly. He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but the horribly familiar feeling came up and choked him in a way that was also horribly familiar. And so, when John threw his hands up in that horribly familiar gesture of exasperation, Sherlock fully expected that what would come next would also be horribly familiar, and he flinched. John's world came to a crashing halt. He stepped back slowly from his flatmate.

"Sherlock, are you afraid of me?" John whispered in horror. Sherlock gave a defiant and completely unbelievable 'no', which John ignored.

"You thought I was going to . . . Jesus, did he . . . I'm going to kill him," he ended the disjointed thought matter-of-factly. There really was only one course of action.

"Can we just forget this?" Sherlock's voice had once again assumed his usual tone of disinterested boredom. "Whatever happened then, it doesn't matter now, I've deleted it."

"Yes, it . . Hang on, what?"

"I've deleted it, the information is irrelevant. Now, it's about time I added more ammonia to the toes." He stepped past John and into the kitchen briskly, while John stood in shock, trying to digest the information he'd just been given. A thought occurred to him.

"Does Mycroft know?"

"Does Mycroft know what?" Sherlock said without looking up from carefully dropping ammonia underneath each individual toenail.

"Sherlock, does Mycroft know your boyfriend used to beat you?"

"No, he doesn't know about Sebastian at all," he answered, choking slightly at John's bluntness. "Besides, I'm not some sad, pitiable victim of domestic abuse, don't make it sound so dramatic."

"Does anyone know?"

"I'm sure his friends know." Sherlock felt himself tense as he remembered exactly how well Sebastian's friends knew. He gave himself an internal look of disgust. _Emotions._

"You need to tell somebody. Me, Mycroft, a shrink, Lestrade, I don't care, but somebody."

"For Christ's sake, John, I don't need a shrink! I am completely fine!"

"You just flinched at me, Sherlock, _flinched!_ You are clearly not fine!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "I am not going to talk to anybody, and that's final. Just drop it."

And with that, he grabbed his netbook and slammed his bedroom door.

Later that night, Sherlock cried for the second time since senior year. Picking up his phone, he read through the message for the tenth time:

_I miss you._

_Address is 103 Parkway, Camden._

_You've probably already deduced it, but I live alone._

_Come anytime._

_SW_

He wiped his tears away and reached for his favorite shirt.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only eleven when Sherlock reached Sebastian's apartment, after having successfully evaded John's persistent attempts to talk. He rang the bell.

Once.

Twice.

Three times. He rolled his eyes and felt like banging his head against the wall. After all the self-convincing, all the preparation for some dramatic confrontation, the pep talks on three different occasions when he felt like just turning around, Sebastian wasn't even _home._ Sherlock stood around for a minute wondering what to do with himself. He decided on a walk through Regents, but instead found himself already sitting on the step. No, he wouldn't be found here waiting like a well-trained dog, having come immediately when called. That wasn't why he was here. Well, just fifteen minutes. He'd give him fifteen minutes.

Thirty minutes later, John had called twice, and Sherlock picked up to tell him he was taking a walk through the Park and not to worry.

An hour later, a taxi pulled up next to the curb.

"Hey, you." Sebastian offered Sherlock a hand, which he didn't take. "I didn't expect to see you so soon. Were you waiting long?"

They made their way inside and into the elevator.

"Just fifteen minutes. I was about to leave."

"I was at a dinner party. Business."

Sherlock nodded, feeling like the situation was careening out of his control. He shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be going up to this man's apartment. He should have said what he wanted to say on the street and then left. He felt utterly disgusted with himself. _What happened to 'All that matters to me is the Work'? What happened to high-functioning sociopath, for that matter? This is neither high-functioning or sociopathic._ His internal self then proceeded to use a number of colorful insults that made Sherlock want to bang his head against the wall again, if only to get rid of the voice.

"Well, here we are. Sorry for the mess," Sebastian said, ushering Sherlock into a spacious but tasteful apartment that was indeed a mess, although it was nothing compared to Sherlock's own. Sebastian dropped his jacket and briefcase on the couch.

"Take off your coat, Sherlock, stay a while," he said with a laugh.

"I'm not staying. I just have something to say to you." He undid the buttons of his coat anyway. Only because of the heat, of course.

"That so? Well, go ahead, I'm listening." Sebastian was standing at the kitchen counter with his back to him, pouring two glasses of wine. Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a couple times. When a glass appeared in front of him, he looked up into Sebastian's eyes and everything that he'd wanted to say came rushing forward all at once. He said the absolute opposite of his intended speech.

"I missed you too."

Sebastian moved a step closer to him and trailed his fingers along Sherlock's face.

"You get more beautiful by the day, my love."

"No, I didn't come here to start this up again, I just, I want you to know that you were wrong to treat me the way you did, and even though I was a wreck when you left me I don't need you anymore, and I don't need _it._"

"Oh, really?" Sebastian said, genuinely surprised this time. "Let me see your arm."

"No."

"Sherlock . . ." Sebastian said, in the tone mothers use on mischievous children. Sherlock stepped back as Sebastian advanced, and soon found his back against the fridge and his coat and scarf on the floor around him.

"Don't, don't," he said, trying to pull himself away without displaying his rising panic. His internal self gave him a look of disgust.

"Relax, darling, I'm not going to hurt you," Sebastian cooed, running his hands soothingly over Sherlock's face and hair. "I just want to see."

His jacket was slipped over his shoulders to join his coat, and the button on his cuff was undone, and the sleeve pushed back, and Sebastian ran his fingers over the faded track marks, and Sherlock felt sick.

"Well, look at you, all grown up and taking care of yourself." Sebastian released him, going back to his glass of wine. "Drink something, Sherlock, you're so tense."

Sherlock stared at him, burning with hate, and anger, and shame, and all those nasty emotions that made normal people do stupid things. He wanted to throw his wine in Sebastian's face, hit him, scream at him. Instead, he settled for deducing him.

"You're consumed by a job that only leaves you less and less fulfilled. I can tell by the lines on your face that you're exhausted, tired of running toward some elusive goal, tired of watching your friends settle down into loving, happy relationships while you stand alone on the outside. And you'll never find happiness, because, Sebastian, you are an _asshole_ and you're cruel and selfish, and I am _not_ going to sit back and let you take advantage of me again." He finished, breathing quickly, and noted the way Sebastian's face had darkened with a twinge of fear.

"Sticks and stones, love." His tone was light and playful and deceived nobody. Sherlock put on his jacket and picked up his coat.

"I don't need you," he repeated.

"Who are you trying to convince?"

"I'm leaving." He picked up his scarf and was halfway to the door when hands grabbed him and held him from behind. He struggled, but Sebastian whispered soft nothings and held him closer, easing his fears.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm sorry I left you alone. I was stupid, so stupid, to think I had a right to control you like that, and I didn't know what I had. It's never going to happen again, I can promise you that. I've grown up too. And Sherlock you're so wonderful and beautiful and priceless, and you mean so much to me, and I swear to you I will never hurt you again, and I will never let you go, and we'll have one of those loving, happy relationships you want so badly, and everything will be okay. Just don't walk out on me now, give me one more chance." His voice was soft and slightly choked, full of a kind of raw emotion that Sherlock very rarely heard associated with himself. The arms around him squeezed a little tighter. He bit his lip, and realized he'd made this decision days ago when he'd accepted the case.

As soon as Sherlock turned and threw his arms around him, they were kissing, and pretty soon his clothes were on the floor again, and when they moved to the bedroom Sherlock reveled in the softness of the bed underneath him and the warmth of the body above him, and if it hurt a little he supposed that was to be expected.

At around two in the morning a car backfired outside 221B, and John jerked awake from the chair in which he'd fallen asleep. He rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and looked around. No coat, no scarf. He pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom. Still nothing.

"Sherlock?"

He was greeted with empty silence.

Strange jingling, creaking, and rustling sounds mixed in with John's dreams in ways that were completely ludicrous. There was a small, distant part of himself that recognized this, and was trying to communicate that the sounds were important, but the rest of him wasn't having it. He rolled over on the couch and grumbled. Somewhere a shower was running, and John rubbed his eyes. It took him half a second to get to the bathroom door.

"Sherlock!" He yelled while knocking.

"John, I'm clearly in the shower," came the muffled response.

"Well, get out and tell me where you've been!"

"Nothing I have to say will be any different ten minutes from now."

"Fine. I'll be on the couch." He stalked off and made two cups of tea.

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief and relaxed into the warm water. Slowly, meticulously, he checked himself over for bite and scratch marks. He had a feeling he had a couple on his neck. All in all, it was a lucky thing Sebastian bit his nails down to the skin; the marks he'd made had already faded. He picked up the shampoo with a contented smile; there was a glowing, bubbling warmth in his stomach, and it made him feel . . . well, he didn't know how it made him feel, but it was good.

It burst when he opened his bedroom door and saw John's face.

"That was twenty minutes. It's ten o'clock in the morning, where have you been?"

"Am I not allowed out on my own?" he asked rhetorically, taking his cuppa and sitting down in front of his laptop.

"Sherlock, I was worried out of my mind!"

"I told you I went to Regents'."

"Yeah, and then you never came back, and didn't answer any of my calls. I thought you'd been kidnapped, or were bleeding out in some dark alley. I was about to phone Lestrade."

"You were asleep."

"Yeah, well, I was about to phone him when I woke up."

Sherlock made no reply to this, but continued perusing BBC's headlines in silence. John shifted nervously from foot to foot before asking quietly, "Did you go to see him?"

"Did I go to see who?" Sherlock asked without skipping a beat. He was now furiously typing out an email. "So Lestrade's not been by, then? No new cases?"

"No, Sherlock, and it hasn't even been twenty-four hours since the last one."

"Can you believe he didn't come to Van Coon's apartment? Sent that other one instead, he was ghastly."

"Yeah, it must be tough when people don't comply with your every whim and fancy."

"Indeed," Sherlock muttered, now staring intently at something that looked like extremely complicated math. John gave a huff of frustration and stalked back to the bathroom to take his turn in the shower.

Sherlock watched him go the minute his back was turned, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. Lying to John about things he would think were important but really weren't was a game he played well and often, to keep himself amused. This felt different somehow, like it was in fact important, and John would be angry when he found out - and he would find out, he wasn't an idiot – and Sherlock hated it when John was angry, really angry, instead of just his usual slightly miffed. He always got this sinking feeling in his chest, like the ground had opened up beneath him. His phone dinged.

_What, no lie in? _

_I was going to make you pancakes._

_SW_

The bubbles returned to his stomach and Sherlock smiled at them.

_Maybe next time._

_SH_

_When?_

_SW_

_Don't get impatient._

_SH_

_Don't keep me waiting._

_SW_

Sherlock didn't respond, and there was a pause in the conversation, before:

_I'll take you out._

_Meet me at the appt at 5 on Sat._

_SW_

The bubbles in Sherlock's stomach danced around a bit before settling into a contented hum.

_Done._

_SH_

"What are you smiling about?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone, startled.

"Nothing," he answered, unconvincingly.

"Who are you texting?" John stepped forward and reached for his phone. Sherlock shut it as quickly as possible so it would lock, but his flatmate grabbed it from him anyway.

"You think I don't know your password by now, all the times you made me send your texts for you? Maybe if you weren't so lazy your security system would do what it's supposed to do."

"Wait, John, don't!" Sherlock said shortly, making another grab for his phone. John continued to hold it away from him, but something in the detective's tone made him stop.

"Ok, don't panic," John said in surprise.

"I'm not panicking," he grumbled.

"Look, Sherlock, it's your business, it's your life. But as soon as you start to get hurt in any capacity, or I determine you to be in any kind of danger, it becomes my business. Is that clear? And then I don't want to hear any complaints that I'm snooping around or whatnot." Sherlock nodded his consent and John handed the phone over.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, John," he said coldly. He hated mothering. He didn't let his own _mother_ mother him; why he allowed it to this extent from John was a mystery.

"Yeah, you say that," John began, putting on his coat, "and then I see you ready to take some deadly poison just to prove yourself right."

"I wasn't going to take it!" Sherlock called after him, drowning out the last of his sentence. He huffed, glared at his computer, and rolled his eyes.


End file.
